On the Banks of Sirion
by Galad Estel
Summary: Maglor half-heartedly tries to convince Maedhros against attacking the Havens of Sirion.


The air reeks of sea – a deep, salt stench that clings to clothes and stirs too many memories. Maglor sits on the damp sand, watching the waves roll in. This morning he dug up clams in the freezing mud. They'll eat the clams for dinner, dipped in butter. He has been trying to come up with words for a song or a poem, something to preserve his thoughts past today. He looks up and sees the dim face of the moon in the last fading rays of the sunset. Poor Tilion, Maglor thinks, he will always be forlorn, pursuing someone who does not want him, does not need him, cannot love him. It is foolish to keep going on. Arien, with eyes of flame and hair of flame, carries fire against her bosom but does not burn. She and Tilion cross the dark outer sphere together, yet alone. Tilion is drawn to her heat, but when he comes to it, finds it too great. It burns his eyes, scars his skin, and she can only scream out unheeded warnings.

But Maglor cannot think of an original poem or song about the pair. He has sung about them for ages, before Elves and Men alike. Taken from a dream his cousin had (which cousin he cannot recall) he made the first song of Tilion the silver bright and Arien the golden to be heard in Middle-earth. He longs to sing, to be lost in the music, in the story, to be enveloped in another's mind, to forget. There will still be pining, all life is pining, but it will be another's, distant and sweet.

Maglor lifts his harp and runs his fingers along the strings. They are old, brittle, could break any moment. Their sound is hollow, rusted, dying. He should restring the harp, but he hasn't. He rises and walks back to camp. A low muttering is the only sound coming from his brothers' tent. He steps in to find Maedhros sitting silent over scattered maps, and Amras staring at himself again. He has the long mirror out, the one he always carries with him, propped against one of the poles. He is talking to himself, no his brother. They were both called Amburussa.

'Amburussa,' Amras whispers, 'Maglor has come back. He looks sad again. He hasn't sung in a long, long time. I wish he would sing. Maybe Maedhros wouldn't be so angry then.'

'Has he been doing that a long time?' Maglor asks. Maedhros doesn't say anything, doesn't look up from his maps.

'How long has he been doing that?' Maglor says.

'I don't know,' Maedhros says, 'how should I know? He's been doing that forever.'

He shoves one of the maps aside and pushes another in front of him. He grabs one of the pens set near him and draws dark lines around the harbor.

'Maedhros is angry,' Amras says.

'Shut up,' says Maedhros. 'I'm trying to think.'

'You're not planning to attack Sirion are you?' Maglor says, sitting down near Maedhros.

'We have to,' Maedhros says.

'But do you think our people will follow us?'

'They have so far.'

'But this isn't even war anymore. You'd be asking them to fight fugitives – women and children adrift from their homes, only wanting safety.'

'If they want safety they should have turned over the Silmaril. It's not my fault now. Their pride and greed are bringing about their downfall, not me. And don't underestimate their women. Nimloth killed as many as Dior, maybe more.'

'Amburussa, we are going to attack the Havens of Sirion,' Amras tells the mirror. 'What do you think of that? Yes, I know. If you were here, maybe we could stand against it, but you're in the sea.'

'Shut up!' Maedhros shouts. He slaps Amras across the shoulders, knocking him into the mirror. 'Stop your foolish babbling.'

'Maedhros hates us,' Amras says, not getting up. 'Maedhros hates everything.'

Maglor pulls Amras away from the broken mirror. Fortunately, Amras is not bleeding. 'Why don't you go out, get some air?' he tells him.

Amras gets up and slinks away.

'Don't go to far though,' Maglor calls after him. _Don't go near the sea._ Sometimes they find Amras in the water or on the bank, barely breathing. Maglor is not certain if Amras wants to drown or if he's still searching for his brother. They're all going mad. Often Maglor wishes he wasn't the sanest.

'Love is selfish,' Maedhros says. By the look in his eyes, Maglor knows he's thinking about Fingon, again. 'It's senseless to hold onto the dead.'

'It's senseless to hurt someone for no reason,' Maglor replies.

'Everything is senseless.'

'Yes,' Maglor says. 'It is. Let's not go to Sirion.'

'We're already here.'

'Then let's go from here,' Maglor says. 'Let's flee away somewhere where Amras will be safe, where he can find healing.'

'There's no safety, there's no healing. We can only go on, Maglor, not back. We can never undo what father has done to us. We are corrupted. We are impure. We will never be untainted.'

'But the people in the Havens,' Maglor says. 'They are children, many of them.'

'But not all. They killed our brothers, and they will pay.'

'What about the boys in the wood? You wanted to spare them.'

Maedhros shakes his head. 'I was wrong.'

That night, Maglor lies in bed. He remembers Valinor. He remembers his mother. He remembers the name she gave him. Then he forgets them all again.


End file.
